


Relocation

by voodoochild



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Background Slash, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-23
Updated: 2010-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spies are usually experts at healing themselves. Everyone's got an off day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relocation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Missy's prompt at comment_fic: "Sam/Michael/Fi: Sam was usually an expert at healing himself..."

"Sam, how did you get through SEAL training without learning how to pop a shoulder back into place?" Michael asks, cutting through the tattered remnants of Sam's shirt (the green Hawaiian, and Michael can't say he's not glad to see it go) and catching the roll of gauze Fiona throws at his head. To be fair, she is driving.

Sam and Michael are in the backseat of the Charger, which is not a place meant to hold two fully grown males, but hey, try telling that to the Serbian mob goons that just threw Sam through a plate-glass window, gave Michael what he's fairly sure is a nicely-developing black eye, and are currently giving Fiona's driving skills a workout. Sam missed most of the glass when he landed, but his shoulder's definitely dislocated and Michael isn't liking the bruise around his ribs that's turning a nice shade of purple.

"I can pop a shoulder back into place," Sam protests, grabbing at the back of the passenger seat as Fi pulls off a hairpin turn, then backtracks down a side street. "I just can't pop _my_ shoulder back into place. My sense of direction gets all screwed up."

Michael chances a look back at the Serbians, who commence shooting at the newly-presented target, and immediately dives for cover. Trouble is, he's kind of ended up in Sam's lap, which is not a place he usually minds being, but his body weight slamming against Sam's ribs causes Sam to swear in pain.

"You wanna give me a little smoother ride here, Fi?" Michael asks.

"You wanna get these goons off our tail for me?" she replies, spinning the wheel like she's hoping for a vowel, and Sam and Michael go rocketing toward the other side of the backseat. "We're going to get a lot more than a little bruise and a dislocated shoulder if they catch us."

He chances another look, and shit, three gunmen. One's leaning out the passenger side, the second and third are in the bed of the truck. Even without taking Fi's creative driving into account, Michael and his Beretta don't have enough shots to take down all three of them.

"Which is better, Sam?" Michael asks, looking down at him. "Try to relocate your shoulder and you'd have perfect aim, fail to relocate your shoulder and give you nerve damage, or let you take the shot with a bum arm or your non-dominant hand?"

Sam looks up at him, complete trust written across his face. "Pop the shoulder back, Mikey. We've got less than zero chance of hitting anything if you let me shoot left-handed. Even with nerve damage, I might be able to get in a lucky shot or two ricocheting off the tires."

"Whatever you two are doing, do it fast!" Fiona barks, changing lanes and swerving to miss a passing car. "I'm not going to be able to lose them."

"On three, then?" Michael asks.

Sam nods. "Why not?"

"One . . . two . . ."

Before Sam can tense up, Michael braces his palm against Sam's shoulder and shoves hard. Sam yells, but the shoulder pops back into place. Just in time, too: if he'd waited for "three", Sam would have gone rigid and Fiona's sudden acceleration would have knocked Michael off balance. He wouldn't have gotten anything but a bruised hand from hitting the upholstery.

Sam stretches, rolls his shoulder a few times, and draws his spare piece that he keeps in an ankle holster. As Michael moves off him to take aim out the rear driver's side window, Sam laughs.

"You owe me a shirt."

"You can borrow one of mine," Michael says, thumbing the safety off his gun and taking aim.

Four shots later - two to the gunmen in the back, one taking out the driver's side tire, and the last ricocheting off the ground and into the passenger side window - the Serbians aren't going to be posing a threat to anyone again.

Good thing, too. They're both out of ammo.


End file.
